I'm delighted by this review by Maggi Anderson of my novel Tangled Love set in England in Queen Anne's reign 1702 - 1714.
In 1693, loyal to his oath of allegiance to James II, ten year old Richelda's father follows James to France. Before her father leaves he gives her a ruby ring and makes her swear an oath to try and regain their ancestral home, Field House.
The story begins when Richelda at 18 is orphaned, and lives in run-down Belmont House with her mother's old nurse and her dog, Puck. Richelda can only dream of living the life she was meant for and hopes her childhood friend, Dudley, will honor his promise to marry her.
When Richelda's wealthy aunt, who had been disinterested in her welfare up to now, takes her to London and arranges her marriage to Viscount Chesney, the new owner of Field House. Richelda is both delighted and dismayed. She cannot trust the handsome Chesney, even though she is desperate to honor her oath to regain Field House.
I enjoyed this historical romance very much, it's well written and Morris knows her history and understands the society of the period well. The heroine and hero are both attractive and likeable. I wanted to see them get together in the end. What stood out for me in this romance is the shrewd knowledge of human nature, Morris displays. Her character's rash actions, mistakes and foibles are always understandable, and never detract from the good characters of both,
All the best,
Rosemary Morris
Sunday, 24 June 2012
Friday, 15 June 2012
Sunday's Child a Traditional Regency Novel
I am delighted to announce that Sunday's Child has been released today.
I need to keep on pinching myself to realise that I really am a published author.
It's not enough for Sunday's Child to be bonny and blithe and good and gay, she must find the strength to protect her sisters and make the right choices.
And it is not sufficient for Major Tarrant a veteran of the Peninsular Wars against Napoleon to admire Sunday's Child, he must overcome his own demon,
All the best,
Rosemary
Available from: https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore2
I need to keep on pinching myself to realise that I really am a published author.
It's not enough for Sunday's Child to be bonny and blithe and good and gay, she must find the strength to protect her sisters and make the right choices.
And it is not sufficient for Major Tarrant a veteran of the Peninsular Wars against Napoleon to admire Sunday's Child, he must overcome his own demon,
All the best,
Rosemary
Available from: https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore2
Sunday, 10 June 2012
Special Offer & extract from Sunday's Child a Regency Novel
Sunday’s Child – Announcement
I am proud to announce that my novel Sunday’s Child set in the Regency era will be published on the 15th of June by MuseItUp publishing, and that there is a pre-publication discount of 22%.
The idea for Sunday’s Child came while I read about modern day soldiers suffering from post traumatic syndrome, and the effect on the families of those who lost a soldier in war.
What, I asked myself, would be the effect on Sunday’s Child whose beloved father and brothers died while fighting against the French in the Napoleonic Wars, and on a brave major who underwent a horrific experience, in the days when there was no counselling for post traumatic syndrome? How would they overcome their experiences?
Sunday’s Child
Prologue
Hertfordshire, England
1810
Fourteen year old, Georgianne Whitley leaned over the banister to watch her aunt’s butler admit a handsome cavalry officer dressed in uniform. One day, her mamma frequently assured her, she would marry such a military man, a member of her dear father’s regiment. Of course, this officer was probably too old to ever be her husband. However, in future, she was sure she would meet someone equally handsome with whom she would fall in love. She giggled. ‘Love is not the main prerequisite for marriage,’ Mamma always claimed. According to her mother, rank, lands, and wealth were more important whereas, according to Papa, love was the only reason to marry.
She turned her head to look at her cousin, Sarah Tarrant. “Who is he?”
“Don’t you recognize him? He is my half brother, Rupert, Lieutenant Tarrant.”
“Of course, but he has changed so much since I last saw him five years ago. He is taller.
Careless of whether or not he would look up and see her, Georgianne inched forward until, bent almost double, she could still gaze down at him.
Rupert removed his shako, revealing his thick, sun-kissed fair hair.
Sarah put her arms around Georgianne’s waist. “If you are not careful, you will fall.”
Georgianne gripped the rail of the highly polished oak banister while she straightened.
“Look at your gown. It’s crushed. You’re such a…a hoyden.”
She stamped her foot. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. My mamma says you are.”
“Well, she is wrong.” In spite of her denial, rueful, she looked down at her crumpled, white muslin gown. What would her aunt say if she knew Papa had taught her to shoot? Once again, she peered over the banister. A ray of June sunshine from the window illuminated the gold braid on Rupert’s scarlet uniform. Yes, one day she really would marry such an officer to please herself, and her parents.
Chapter One
Hertfordshire, England
November 1813
Rupert, Major Tarrant, caught his breath at the sight of seventeen year old Georgianne. Black curls gleamed and rioted over the edges of her bandeau. Georgianne’s heart-shaped face tilted down toward her embroidery frame. Her hands lay idle on her gown. It was lilac, one of the colours of half-mourning. A sympathetic sigh escaped him. She wore the colour out of respect for her father, who lost a hand and leg, during the Battle of Salamanca, and died of gangrene more than a year ago.
There had been so many deaths since he last saw Georgianne. Not only had her brothers died during the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo but his elder brother had drowned six months ago while bathing in the lake on their father’s estate.
He advanced into the room with Adrian, Viscount Langley, at his side. Georgianne looked up and smiled. He caught himself staring into her hyacinth blue eyes, fringed with long black lashes. Colour crept over her high cheekbones. Her arched eyebrows drew together across her smooth forehead. Egad, she had the sweetest countenance he had ever seen; one with the lustrous, milky white sheen of china, and bow shaped rose pink lips to catch at the heart.
Georgianne stood.
He bowed. “My condolences.”
Sarah, clad in full mourning for her older half-brother, stood to make her curtsy to Langley. “I trust you have everything you require, my lord?”
Langley bowed. “Yes, thank you.”
“My lord, allow me to introduce you to my cousin, Miss Whitley.”
Georgianne curtsied as his lordship crossed the parlour to make his bow.
Tarrant inclined his head. “Ladies, please excuse us, we must see to our horses.”
Sarah shook her head at him. “See to your horses? The grooms can do so.”
Georgianne gurgled with laughter. “Ah, Sarah, have you forgotten how cavalrymen fuss over their mounts?”
“Excuse us.”
****
After the gentlemen left, Georgianne glanced at her cousin. She had seen little of her since Sarah yielded to the family’s persuasion to marry Wilfred Stanton, heir to his uncle, the Earl of Pennington.
Despite her reluctance to leave home because of her mamma’s unfortunate habit, and extravagant displays of grief over the loss of her husband and sons, Georgianne agreed to visit her cousin Sarah, who suffered from melancholy after the birth of a son.
Anxious for her mamma and two younger sisters, she reminded herself Whitley Manor—on the southern outskirts of Cousin Stanton’s Hertfordshire parish—lay a mere fifteen minutes away by carriage.
“Are you daydreaming, Cousin?”
Georgianne pretended to be busy untangling another strand of embroidery thread. “No.”
“Did I tell you Papa wants Tarrant to resign from the army now he is Papa’s heir?” Sarah’s needle flashed in and out of her work.
“Yes, several times.” Georgianne shivered, stretched her hands toward the fire, and fought a losing battle with the draughts in the old vicarage.
“Are you not interested in dear Tarrant?”
Georgianne bent her head. Once, she had wanted to marry a military man. However, after the loss of her father and brothers, she changed her mind for fear death might snatch him from her, either on the battlefield or as a result of wounds sustained in combat. She shook her head, remembering the dreams she harboured three years earlier when she last saw Major Tarrant. How her life had altered since then. Most of the time, she lived cloistered at home in reduced—yet not impoverished—circumstances. She spent her life in an endless round of mending and embroidery, both of which she detested. Her only escape from this drab existence consisted of daily walks, rides, or reading her beloved books. A yawn escaped her. Oh, the tedium of her days at home.
“You have not answered my question.”
Georgianne gathered her thoughts. “Yes, Sarah, I am interested in Major Tarrant. After all, we have known each other since we were in the nursery.”
“Good, but what are you thinking about? You are neglecting your sewing.”
Georgianne picked up her needle and thrust it in and out of the chemise, careless of the size of her stitches. Already she loathed the garment and vowed never to wear it.
“Papa wants Tarrant to marry,” Sarah rattled on.
Eyes downcast, Georgianne set aside her sewing and wrapped her arms around her waist for comfort. Before they died, her brothers and father had expressed their admiration for Major Tarrant in their letters. She shrugged. Once upon a time, she had built a castle in the air inhabited by Major Tarrant, a mere lieutenant when she last saw him.
Mamma still insisted on love not being the prime consideration for marriage, but novels and poems contradicted her opinion. Georgianne wanted to fall in love with one of the many eligible young gentlemen available: maybe a titled gentleman like Viscount Langley, provided he was not a military man. She shrugged. Certainly her mamma would regard the Viscount favourably. His lordship was wealthy, possessed good manners, and his height and broad shoulders equalled Major Tarrant’s. However, although she found no fault with him, Mamma might not approve of the Viscount’s skin—almost as dark as a gypsy from exposure to the sun while serving abroad—and his hair and eyes, sufficiently dark to rival any Spaniard’s. Her spirits lifted. The rectory would be a happier place with two fine young men in attendance. She was glad to be here, despite her acute concern for her family.
Sarah’s voice ended her musing. “Have you heard Tarrant inherited his godfather’s estate and fortune? Besides his pay, his income is thirty thousand pounds a year.”
Georgianne nodded. “Yes, I know. Major Tarrant is exceptionally fortunate.” Sarah blinked. “Why are you smiling?”
Georgianne stood and crossed the room to look out of the window. “I am happy because, so far, Major Tarrant and Viscount Langley have survived the war, which has taken so many lives and affected everyone in some way or another.”
She must force herself to remain cheerful. Papa had died eighteen months ago. It was time to set grief aside, if she could only find the means.
Thankfully, there was much to look forward to. After her presentation at court, she would be sure to meet many engaging gentlemen, one of whom she might marry. In time, she could help her sisters to escape their miserable existence.
Georgianne drummed her fingers on the windowsill. Her thoughts darted hither and thither. She glanced around the parlour, inhaling the odour of potpourri and lavender-scented beeswax.
Wilfred Stanton entered the room. He stood with his back to the fire, hands clasped over his paunch. “Mrs Stanton, my uncle, the Earl of Pennington, has arrived unexpectedly, and is resting after the rigours of his journey. Tarrant and his friend are busy with their horses. No, no, do not disturb yourself, my love. No need to bestir yourself on my uncle’s behalf.”
Cousin Stanton’s lips parted in a smile revealing yellowed teeth. “Ah, I know what you ladies are like. Have you been matchmaking? There must be a dozen or more eligible members of the fair sex amongst our neighbours who would be eager to meet Tarrant. If they knew of his visit, I daresay all of them would harbour thoughts of marrying him.”
“Indeed,” Sarah said in a colourless tone of voice.
Accustomed to taking long walks every day, Georgianne fidgeted. She found it difficult to tolerate Sarah’s sedentary habits.
“Sarah, will you not come for a walk? You know the doctor is concerned by your continued lethargy. Do not forget he encourages gentle exercise to improve your health.” She stared out at the dark grey clouds. Suddenly they parted and sunlight bathed her. It heightened the colour of her gown and warmed her. She reached up to smooth her bodice and noticed a movement in the shadowed east wing. Was someone peering at her through the small, diamond-shaped panes? There were no menservants in the household. Could it be Cousin Stanton’s uncle, the earl?
Sarah stepped daintily to her side, and slipped an arm around her waist. “Come, it is time to change our clothes before we dine.”
Available from: https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore2
I am proud to announce that my novel Sunday’s Child set in the Regency era will be published on the 15th of June by MuseItUp publishing, and that there is a pre-publication discount of 22%.
The idea for Sunday’s Child came while I read about modern day soldiers suffering from post traumatic syndrome, and the effect on the families of those who lost a soldier in war.
What, I asked myself, would be the effect on Sunday’s Child whose beloved father and brothers died while fighting against the French in the Napoleonic Wars, and on a brave major who underwent a horrific experience, in the days when there was no counselling for post traumatic syndrome? How would they overcome their experiences?
Sunday’s Child
Prologue
Hertfordshire, England
1810
Fourteen year old, Georgianne Whitley leaned over the banister to watch her aunt’s butler admit a handsome cavalry officer dressed in uniform. One day, her mamma frequently assured her, she would marry such a military man, a member of her dear father’s regiment. Of course, this officer was probably too old to ever be her husband. However, in future, she was sure she would meet someone equally handsome with whom she would fall in love. She giggled. ‘Love is not the main prerequisite for marriage,’ Mamma always claimed. According to her mother, rank, lands, and wealth were more important whereas, according to Papa, love was the only reason to marry.
She turned her head to look at her cousin, Sarah Tarrant. “Who is he?”
“Don’t you recognize him? He is my half brother, Rupert, Lieutenant Tarrant.”
“Of course, but he has changed so much since I last saw him five years ago. He is taller.
Careless of whether or not he would look up and see her, Georgianne inched forward until, bent almost double, she could still gaze down at him.
Rupert removed his shako, revealing his thick, sun-kissed fair hair.
Sarah put her arms around Georgianne’s waist. “If you are not careful, you will fall.”
Georgianne gripped the rail of the highly polished oak banister while she straightened.
“Look at your gown. It’s crushed. You’re such a…a hoyden.”
She stamped her foot. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. My mamma says you are.”
“Well, she is wrong.” In spite of her denial, rueful, she looked down at her crumpled, white muslin gown. What would her aunt say if she knew Papa had taught her to shoot? Once again, she peered over the banister. A ray of June sunshine from the window illuminated the gold braid on Rupert’s scarlet uniform. Yes, one day she really would marry such an officer to please herself, and her parents.
Chapter One
Hertfordshire, England
November 1813
Rupert, Major Tarrant, caught his breath at the sight of seventeen year old Georgianne. Black curls gleamed and rioted over the edges of her bandeau. Georgianne’s heart-shaped face tilted down toward her embroidery frame. Her hands lay idle on her gown. It was lilac, one of the colours of half-mourning. A sympathetic sigh escaped him. She wore the colour out of respect for her father, who lost a hand and leg, during the Battle of Salamanca, and died of gangrene more than a year ago.
There had been so many deaths since he last saw Georgianne. Not only had her brothers died during the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo but his elder brother had drowned six months ago while bathing in the lake on their father’s estate.
He advanced into the room with Adrian, Viscount Langley, at his side. Georgianne looked up and smiled. He caught himself staring into her hyacinth blue eyes, fringed with long black lashes. Colour crept over her high cheekbones. Her arched eyebrows drew together across her smooth forehead. Egad, she had the sweetest countenance he had ever seen; one with the lustrous, milky white sheen of china, and bow shaped rose pink lips to catch at the heart.
Georgianne stood.
He bowed. “My condolences.”
Sarah, clad in full mourning for her older half-brother, stood to make her curtsy to Langley. “I trust you have everything you require, my lord?”
Langley bowed. “Yes, thank you.”
“My lord, allow me to introduce you to my cousin, Miss Whitley.”
Georgianne curtsied as his lordship crossed the parlour to make his bow.
Tarrant inclined his head. “Ladies, please excuse us, we must see to our horses.”
Sarah shook her head at him. “See to your horses? The grooms can do so.”
Georgianne gurgled with laughter. “Ah, Sarah, have you forgotten how cavalrymen fuss over their mounts?”
“Excuse us.”
****
After the gentlemen left, Georgianne glanced at her cousin. She had seen little of her since Sarah yielded to the family’s persuasion to marry Wilfred Stanton, heir to his uncle, the Earl of Pennington.
Despite her reluctance to leave home because of her mamma’s unfortunate habit, and extravagant displays of grief over the loss of her husband and sons, Georgianne agreed to visit her cousin Sarah, who suffered from melancholy after the birth of a son.
Anxious for her mamma and two younger sisters, she reminded herself Whitley Manor—on the southern outskirts of Cousin Stanton’s Hertfordshire parish—lay a mere fifteen minutes away by carriage.
“Are you daydreaming, Cousin?”
Georgianne pretended to be busy untangling another strand of embroidery thread. “No.”
“Did I tell you Papa wants Tarrant to resign from the army now he is Papa’s heir?” Sarah’s needle flashed in and out of her work.
“Yes, several times.” Georgianne shivered, stretched her hands toward the fire, and fought a losing battle with the draughts in the old vicarage.
“Are you not interested in dear Tarrant?”
Georgianne bent her head. Once, she had wanted to marry a military man. However, after the loss of her father and brothers, she changed her mind for fear death might snatch him from her, either on the battlefield or as a result of wounds sustained in combat. She shook her head, remembering the dreams she harboured three years earlier when she last saw Major Tarrant. How her life had altered since then. Most of the time, she lived cloistered at home in reduced—yet not impoverished—circumstances. She spent her life in an endless round of mending and embroidery, both of which she detested. Her only escape from this drab existence consisted of daily walks, rides, or reading her beloved books. A yawn escaped her. Oh, the tedium of her days at home.
“You have not answered my question.”
Georgianne gathered her thoughts. “Yes, Sarah, I am interested in Major Tarrant. After all, we have known each other since we were in the nursery.”
“Good, but what are you thinking about? You are neglecting your sewing.”
Georgianne picked up her needle and thrust it in and out of the chemise, careless of the size of her stitches. Already she loathed the garment and vowed never to wear it.
“Papa wants Tarrant to marry,” Sarah rattled on.
Eyes downcast, Georgianne set aside her sewing and wrapped her arms around her waist for comfort. Before they died, her brothers and father had expressed their admiration for Major Tarrant in their letters. She shrugged. Once upon a time, she had built a castle in the air inhabited by Major Tarrant, a mere lieutenant when she last saw him.
Mamma still insisted on love not being the prime consideration for marriage, but novels and poems contradicted her opinion. Georgianne wanted to fall in love with one of the many eligible young gentlemen available: maybe a titled gentleman like Viscount Langley, provided he was not a military man. She shrugged. Certainly her mamma would regard the Viscount favourably. His lordship was wealthy, possessed good manners, and his height and broad shoulders equalled Major Tarrant’s. However, although she found no fault with him, Mamma might not approve of the Viscount’s skin—almost as dark as a gypsy from exposure to the sun while serving abroad—and his hair and eyes, sufficiently dark to rival any Spaniard’s. Her spirits lifted. The rectory would be a happier place with two fine young men in attendance. She was glad to be here, despite her acute concern for her family.
Sarah’s voice ended her musing. “Have you heard Tarrant inherited his godfather’s estate and fortune? Besides his pay, his income is thirty thousand pounds a year.”
Georgianne nodded. “Yes, I know. Major Tarrant is exceptionally fortunate.” Sarah blinked. “Why are you smiling?”
Georgianne stood and crossed the room to look out of the window. “I am happy because, so far, Major Tarrant and Viscount Langley have survived the war, which has taken so many lives and affected everyone in some way or another.”
She must force herself to remain cheerful. Papa had died eighteen months ago. It was time to set grief aside, if she could only find the means.
Thankfully, there was much to look forward to. After her presentation at court, she would be sure to meet many engaging gentlemen, one of whom she might marry. In time, she could help her sisters to escape their miserable existence.
Georgianne drummed her fingers on the windowsill. Her thoughts darted hither and thither. She glanced around the parlour, inhaling the odour of potpourri and lavender-scented beeswax.
Wilfred Stanton entered the room. He stood with his back to the fire, hands clasped over his paunch. “Mrs Stanton, my uncle, the Earl of Pennington, has arrived unexpectedly, and is resting after the rigours of his journey. Tarrant and his friend are busy with their horses. No, no, do not disturb yourself, my love. No need to bestir yourself on my uncle’s behalf.”
Cousin Stanton’s lips parted in a smile revealing yellowed teeth. “Ah, I know what you ladies are like. Have you been matchmaking? There must be a dozen or more eligible members of the fair sex amongst our neighbours who would be eager to meet Tarrant. If they knew of his visit, I daresay all of them would harbour thoughts of marrying him.”
“Indeed,” Sarah said in a colourless tone of voice.
Accustomed to taking long walks every day, Georgianne fidgeted. She found it difficult to tolerate Sarah’s sedentary habits.
“Sarah, will you not come for a walk? You know the doctor is concerned by your continued lethargy. Do not forget he encourages gentle exercise to improve your health.” She stared out at the dark grey clouds. Suddenly they parted and sunlight bathed her. It heightened the colour of her gown and warmed her. She reached up to smooth her bodice and noticed a movement in the shadowed east wing. Was someone peering at her through the small, diamond-shaped panes? There were no menservants in the household. Could it be Cousin Stanton’s uncle, the earl?
Sarah stepped daintily to her side, and slipped an arm around her waist. “Come, it is time to change our clothes before we dine.”
Available from: https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore2
Friday, 8 June 2012
Sunday's Child a Regency Novel by Rosemary Morris
Sunday’s Child – Announcement
I am proud to announce that my novel Sunday’s Child set in the Regency era will be published on the 15th of June by MuseItUp publishing, and that there is a pre-publication discount of 20%.
The idea for Sunday’s Child came while I read about modern day soldiers suffering from post traumatic syndrome, and the effect on the families of those who lost a soldier in war.
What, I asked myself, would be the effect on Sunday’s Child whose beloved father and brothers fought against the French in the Napoleonic Wars, and on a brave major who underwent a horrific experience, in the days when there was no counselling for post traumatic syndrome? How would they overcome their experiences?
Sunday’s Child
Prologue
Hertfordshire, England
1810
Fourteen year old, Georgianne Whitley leaned over the banister to watch her aunt’s butler admit a handsome cavalry officer dressed in uniform. One day, her mamma frequently assured her, she would marry such a military man, a member of her dear father’s regiment. Of course, this officer was probably too old to ever be her husband. However, in future, she was sure she would meet someone equally handsome with whom she would fall in love. She giggled. ‘Love is not the main prerequisite for marriage,’ Mamma always claimed. According to her mother, rank, lands, and wealth were more important whereas, according to Papa, love was the only reason to marry.
She turned her head to look at her cousin, Sarah Tarrant. “Who is he?”
“Don’t you recognize him? He is my half brother, Rupert, Lieutenant Tarrant.”
“Of course, but he has changed so much since I last saw him five years ago. He is taller.
Careless of whether or not he would look up and see her, Georgianne inched forward until, bent almost double, she could still gaze down at him.
Rupert removed his shako, revealing his thick, sun-kissed fair hair.
Sarah put her arms around Georgianne’s waist. “If you are not careful, you will fall.”
Georgianne gripped the rail of the highly polished oak banister while she straightened.
“Look at your gown. It’s crushed. You’re such a…a hoyden.”
She stamped her foot. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. My mamma says you are.”
“Well, she is wrong.” In spite of her denial, rueful, she looked down at her crumpled, white muslin gown. What would her aunt say if she knew Papa had taught her to shoot? Once again, she peered over the banister. A ray of June sunshine from the window illuminated the gold braid on Rupert’s scarlet uniform. Yes, one day she really would marry such an officer to please herself, and her parents.
Chapter One
Hertfordshire, England
November 1813
Rupert, Major Tarrant, caught his breath at the sight of seventeen year old Georgianne. Black curls gleamed and rioted over the edges of her bandeau. Georgianne’s heart-shaped face tilted down toward her embroidery frame. Her hands lay idle on her gown. It was lilac, one of the colours of half-mourning. A sympathetic sigh escaped him. She wore the colour out of respect for her father, who lost a hand and leg, during the Battle of Salamanca, and died of gangrene more than a year ago.
There had been so many deaths since he last saw Georgianne. Not only had her brothers died during the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo but his elder brother had drowned six months ago while bathing in the lake on their father’s estate.
He advanced into the room with Adrian, Viscount Langley, at his side. Georgianne looked up and smiled. He caught himself staring into her hyacinth blue eyes, fringed with long black lashes. Colour crept over her high cheekbones. Her arched eyebrows drew together across her smooth forehead. Egad, she had the sweetest countenance he had ever seen; one with the lustrous, milky white sheen of china, and bow shaped rose pink lips to catch at the heart.
Georgianne stood.
He bowed. “My condolences.”
Sarah, clad in full mourning for her older half-brother, stood to make her curtsy to Langley. “I trust you have everything you require, my lord?”
Langley bowed. “Yes, thank you.”
“My lord, allow me to introduce you to my cousin, Miss Whitley.”
Georgianne curtsied as his lordship crossed the parlour to make his bow.
Tarrant inclined his head. “Ladies, please excuse us, we must see to our horses.”
Sarah shook her head at him. “See to your horses? The grooms can do so.”
Georgianne gurgled with laughter. “Ah, Sarah, have you forgotten how cavalrymen fuss over their mounts?”
“Excuse us.”
****
After the gentlemen left, Georgianne glanced at her cousin. She had seen little of her since Sarah yielded to the family’s persuasion to marry Wilfred Stanton, heir to his uncle, the Earl of Pennington.
Despite her reluctance to leave home because of her mamma’s unfortunate habit, and extravagant displays of grief over the loss of her husband and sons, Georgianne agreed to visit her cousin Sarah, who suffered from melancholy after the birth of a son.
Anxious for her mamma and two younger sisters, she reminded herself Whitley Manor—on the southern outskirts of Cousin Stanton’s Hertfordshire parish—lay a mere fifteen minutes away by carriage.
“Are you daydreaming, Cousin?”
Georgianne pretended to be busy untangling another strand of embroidery thread. “No.”
“Did I tell you Papa wants Tarrant to resign from the army now he is Papa’s heir?” Sarah’s needle flashed in and out of her work.
“Yes, several times.” Georgianne shivered, stretched her hands toward the fire, and fought a losing battle with the draughts in the old vicarage.
“Are you not interested in dear Tarrant?”
Georgianne bent her head. Once, she had wanted to marry a military man. However, after the loss of her father and brothers, she changed her mind for fear death might snatch him from her, either on the battlefield or as a result of wounds sustained in combat. She shook her head, remembering the dreams she harboured three years earlier when she last saw Major Tarrant. How her life had altered since then. Most of the time, she lived cloistered at home in reduced—yet not impoverished—circumstances. She spent her life in an endless round of mending and embroidery, both of which she detested. Her only escape from this drab existence consisted of daily walks, rides, or reading her beloved books. A yawn escaped her. Oh, the tedium of her days at home.
“You have not answered my question.”
Georgianne gathered her thoughts. “Yes, Sarah, I am interested in Major Tarrant. After all, we have known each other since we were in the nursery.”
“Good, but what are you thinking about? You are neglecting your sewing.”
Georgianne picked up her needle and thrust it in and out of the chemise, careless of the size of her stitches. Already she loathed the garment and vowed never to wear it.
“Papa wants Tarrant to marry,” Sarah rattled on.
Eyes downcast, Georgianne set aside her sewing and wrapped her arms around her waist for comfort. Before they died, her brothers and father had expressed their admiration for Major Tarrant in their letters. She shrugged. Once upon a time, she had built a castle in the air inhabited by Major Tarrant, a mere lieutenant when she last saw him.
Mamma still insisted on love not being the prime consideration for marriage, but novels and poems contradicted her opinion. Georgianne wanted to fall in love with one of the many eligible young gentlemen available: maybe a titled gentleman like Viscount Langley, provided he was not a military man. She shrugged. Certainly her mamma would regard the Viscount favourably. His lordship was wealthy, possessed good manners, and his height and broad shoulders equalled Major Tarrant’s. However, although she found no fault with him, Mamma might not approve of the Viscount’s skin—almost as dark as a gypsy from exposure to the sun while serving abroad—and his hair and eyes, sufficiently dark to rival any Spaniard’s. Her spirits lifted. The rectory would be a happier place with two fine young men in attendance. She was glad to be here, despite her acute concern for her family.
Sarah’s voice ended her musing. “Have you heard Tarrant inherited his godfather’s estate and fortune? Besides his pay, his income is thirty thousand pounds a year.”
Georgianne nodded. “Yes, I know. Major Tarrant is exceptionally fortunate.” Sarah blinked. “Why are you smiling?”
Georgianne stood and crossed the room to look out of the window. “I am happy because, so far, Major Tarrant and Viscount Langley have survived the war, which has taken so many lives and affected everyone in some way or another.”
She must force herself to remain cheerful. Papa had died eighteen months ago. It was time to set grief aside, if she could only find the means.
Thankfully, there was much to look forward to. After her presentation at court, she would be sure to meet many engaging gentlemen, one of whom she might marry. In time, she could help her sisters to escape their miserable existence.
Georgianne drummed her fingers on the windowsill. Her thoughts darted hither and thither. She glanced around the parlour, inhaling the odour of potpourri and lavender-scented beeswax.
Wilfred Stanton entered the room. He stood with his back to the fire, hands clasped over his paunch. “Mrs Stanton, my uncle, the Earl of Pennington, has arrived unexpectedly, and is resting after the rigours of his journey. Tarrant and his friend are busy with their horses. No, no, do not disturb yourself, my love. No need to bestir yourself on my uncle’s behalf.”
Cousin Stanton’s lips parted in a smile revealing yellowed teeth. “Ah, I know what you ladies are like. Have you been matchmaking? There must be a dozen or more eligible members of the fair sex amongst our neighbours who would be eager to meet Tarrant. If they knew of his visit, I daresay all of them would harbour thoughts of marrying him.”
“Indeed,” Sarah said in a colourless tone of voice.
Accustomed to taking long walks every day, Georgianne fidgeted. She found it difficult to tolerate Sarah’s sedentary habits.
“Sarah, will you not come for a walk? You know the doctor is concerned by your continued lethargy. Do not forget he encourages gentle exercise to improve your health.” She stared out at the dark grey clouds. Suddenly they parted and sunlight bathed her. It heightened the colour of her gown and warmed her. She reached up to smooth her bodice and noticed a movement in the shadowed east wing. Was someone peering at her through the small, diamond-shaped panes? There were no menservants in the household. Could it be Cousin Stanton’s uncle, the earl?
Sarah stepped daintily to her side, and slipped an arm around her waist. “Come, it is time to change our clothes before we dine.”
Available from: https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore2
Sunday's Child. Despite quixotic Major Tarrant's experience of brutality, loss and past love, will it be possible for him to put the past behind him?
Tangled Love set in Queen Anne's reign a tale of two great estates, duty, betrayal, despair and hope.
October 2012 False Pretences a Regency Novel. Will Annabelle escape an arranged marriage and discover who her parents are?
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://rosemarymorris.blogspot.com
I am proud to announce that my novel Sunday’s Child set in the Regency era will be published on the 15th of June by MuseItUp publishing, and that there is a pre-publication discount of 20%.
The idea for Sunday’s Child came while I read about modern day soldiers suffering from post traumatic syndrome, and the effect on the families of those who lost a soldier in war.
What, I asked myself, would be the effect on Sunday’s Child whose beloved father and brothers fought against the French in the Napoleonic Wars, and on a brave major who underwent a horrific experience, in the days when there was no counselling for post traumatic syndrome? How would they overcome their experiences?
Sunday’s Child
Prologue
Hertfordshire, England
1810
Fourteen year old, Georgianne Whitley leaned over the banister to watch her aunt’s butler admit a handsome cavalry officer dressed in uniform. One day, her mamma frequently assured her, she would marry such a military man, a member of her dear father’s regiment. Of course, this officer was probably too old to ever be her husband. However, in future, she was sure she would meet someone equally handsome with whom she would fall in love. She giggled. ‘Love is not the main prerequisite for marriage,’ Mamma always claimed. According to her mother, rank, lands, and wealth were more important whereas, according to Papa, love was the only reason to marry.
She turned her head to look at her cousin, Sarah Tarrant. “Who is he?”
“Don’t you recognize him? He is my half brother, Rupert, Lieutenant Tarrant.”
“Of course, but he has changed so much since I last saw him five years ago. He is taller.
Careless of whether or not he would look up and see her, Georgianne inched forward until, bent almost double, she could still gaze down at him.
Rupert removed his shako, revealing his thick, sun-kissed fair hair.
Sarah put her arms around Georgianne’s waist. “If you are not careful, you will fall.”
Georgianne gripped the rail of the highly polished oak banister while she straightened.
“Look at your gown. It’s crushed. You’re such a…a hoyden.”
She stamped her foot. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. My mamma says you are.”
“Well, she is wrong.” In spite of her denial, rueful, she looked down at her crumpled, white muslin gown. What would her aunt say if she knew Papa had taught her to shoot? Once again, she peered over the banister. A ray of June sunshine from the window illuminated the gold braid on Rupert’s scarlet uniform. Yes, one day she really would marry such an officer to please herself, and her parents.
Chapter One
Hertfordshire, England
November 1813
Rupert, Major Tarrant, caught his breath at the sight of seventeen year old Georgianne. Black curls gleamed and rioted over the edges of her bandeau. Georgianne’s heart-shaped face tilted down toward her embroidery frame. Her hands lay idle on her gown. It was lilac, one of the colours of half-mourning. A sympathetic sigh escaped him. She wore the colour out of respect for her father, who lost a hand and leg, during the Battle of Salamanca, and died of gangrene more than a year ago.
There had been so many deaths since he last saw Georgianne. Not only had her brothers died during the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo but his elder brother had drowned six months ago while bathing in the lake on their father’s estate.
He advanced into the room with Adrian, Viscount Langley, at his side. Georgianne looked up and smiled. He caught himself staring into her hyacinth blue eyes, fringed with long black lashes. Colour crept over her high cheekbones. Her arched eyebrows drew together across her smooth forehead. Egad, she had the sweetest countenance he had ever seen; one with the lustrous, milky white sheen of china, and bow shaped rose pink lips to catch at the heart.
Georgianne stood.
He bowed. “My condolences.”
Sarah, clad in full mourning for her older half-brother, stood to make her curtsy to Langley. “I trust you have everything you require, my lord?”
Langley bowed. “Yes, thank you.”
“My lord, allow me to introduce you to my cousin, Miss Whitley.”
Georgianne curtsied as his lordship crossed the parlour to make his bow.
Tarrant inclined his head. “Ladies, please excuse us, we must see to our horses.”
Sarah shook her head at him. “See to your horses? The grooms can do so.”
Georgianne gurgled with laughter. “Ah, Sarah, have you forgotten how cavalrymen fuss over their mounts?”
“Excuse us.”
****
After the gentlemen left, Georgianne glanced at her cousin. She had seen little of her since Sarah yielded to the family’s persuasion to marry Wilfred Stanton, heir to his uncle, the Earl of Pennington.
Despite her reluctance to leave home because of her mamma’s unfortunate habit, and extravagant displays of grief over the loss of her husband and sons, Georgianne agreed to visit her cousin Sarah, who suffered from melancholy after the birth of a son.
Anxious for her mamma and two younger sisters, she reminded herself Whitley Manor—on the southern outskirts of Cousin Stanton’s Hertfordshire parish—lay a mere fifteen minutes away by carriage.
“Are you daydreaming, Cousin?”
Georgianne pretended to be busy untangling another strand of embroidery thread. “No.”
“Did I tell you Papa wants Tarrant to resign from the army now he is Papa’s heir?” Sarah’s needle flashed in and out of her work.
“Yes, several times.” Georgianne shivered, stretched her hands toward the fire, and fought a losing battle with the draughts in the old vicarage.
“Are you not interested in dear Tarrant?”
Georgianne bent her head. Once, she had wanted to marry a military man. However, after the loss of her father and brothers, she changed her mind for fear death might snatch him from her, either on the battlefield or as a result of wounds sustained in combat. She shook her head, remembering the dreams she harboured three years earlier when she last saw Major Tarrant. How her life had altered since then. Most of the time, she lived cloistered at home in reduced—yet not impoverished—circumstances. She spent her life in an endless round of mending and embroidery, both of which she detested. Her only escape from this drab existence consisted of daily walks, rides, or reading her beloved books. A yawn escaped her. Oh, the tedium of her days at home.
“You have not answered my question.”
Georgianne gathered her thoughts. “Yes, Sarah, I am interested in Major Tarrant. After all, we have known each other since we were in the nursery.”
“Good, but what are you thinking about? You are neglecting your sewing.”
Georgianne picked up her needle and thrust it in and out of the chemise, careless of the size of her stitches. Already she loathed the garment and vowed never to wear it.
“Papa wants Tarrant to marry,” Sarah rattled on.
Eyes downcast, Georgianne set aside her sewing and wrapped her arms around her waist for comfort. Before they died, her brothers and father had expressed their admiration for Major Tarrant in their letters. She shrugged. Once upon a time, she had built a castle in the air inhabited by Major Tarrant, a mere lieutenant when she last saw him.
Mamma still insisted on love not being the prime consideration for marriage, but novels and poems contradicted her opinion. Georgianne wanted to fall in love with one of the many eligible young gentlemen available: maybe a titled gentleman like Viscount Langley, provided he was not a military man. She shrugged. Certainly her mamma would regard the Viscount favourably. His lordship was wealthy, possessed good manners, and his height and broad shoulders equalled Major Tarrant’s. However, although she found no fault with him, Mamma might not approve of the Viscount’s skin—almost as dark as a gypsy from exposure to the sun while serving abroad—and his hair and eyes, sufficiently dark to rival any Spaniard’s. Her spirits lifted. The rectory would be a happier place with two fine young men in attendance. She was glad to be here, despite her acute concern for her family.
Sarah’s voice ended her musing. “Have you heard Tarrant inherited his godfather’s estate and fortune? Besides his pay, his income is thirty thousand pounds a year.”
Georgianne nodded. “Yes, I know. Major Tarrant is exceptionally fortunate.” Sarah blinked. “Why are you smiling?”
Georgianne stood and crossed the room to look out of the window. “I am happy because, so far, Major Tarrant and Viscount Langley have survived the war, which has taken so many lives and affected everyone in some way or another.”
She must force herself to remain cheerful. Papa had died eighteen months ago. It was time to set grief aside, if she could only find the means.
Thankfully, there was much to look forward to. After her presentation at court, she would be sure to meet many engaging gentlemen, one of whom she might marry. In time, she could help her sisters to escape their miserable existence.
Georgianne drummed her fingers on the windowsill. Her thoughts darted hither and thither. She glanced around the parlour, inhaling the odour of potpourri and lavender-scented beeswax.
Wilfred Stanton entered the room. He stood with his back to the fire, hands clasped over his paunch. “Mrs Stanton, my uncle, the Earl of Pennington, has arrived unexpectedly, and is resting after the rigours of his journey. Tarrant and his friend are busy with their horses. No, no, do not disturb yourself, my love. No need to bestir yourself on my uncle’s behalf.”
Cousin Stanton’s lips parted in a smile revealing yellowed teeth. “Ah, I know what you ladies are like. Have you been matchmaking? There must be a dozen or more eligible members of the fair sex amongst our neighbours who would be eager to meet Tarrant. If they knew of his visit, I daresay all of them would harbour thoughts of marrying him.”
“Indeed,” Sarah said in a colourless tone of voice.
Accustomed to taking long walks every day, Georgianne fidgeted. She found it difficult to tolerate Sarah’s sedentary habits.
“Sarah, will you not come for a walk? You know the doctor is concerned by your continued lethargy. Do not forget he encourages gentle exercise to improve your health.” She stared out at the dark grey clouds. Suddenly they parted and sunlight bathed her. It heightened the colour of her gown and warmed her. She reached up to smooth her bodice and noticed a movement in the shadowed east wing. Was someone peering at her through the small, diamond-shaped panes? There were no menservants in the household. Could it be Cousin Stanton’s uncle, the earl?
Sarah stepped daintily to her side, and slipped an arm around her waist. “Come, it is time to change our clothes before we dine.”
Available from: https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore2
Sunday's Child. Despite quixotic Major Tarrant's experience of brutality, loss and past love, will it be possible for him to put the past behind him?
Tangled Love set in Queen Anne's reign a tale of two great estates, duty, betrayal, despair and hope.
October 2012 False Pretences a Regency Novel. Will Annabelle escape an arranged marriage and discover who her parents are?
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://rosemarymorris.blogspot.com
Thursday, 17 May 2012
Saturday, 12 May 2012
Sunday's Child by Rosemary Morris
Georgianne Whitley’s beloved father and brothers died in the war against Napoleon Bonaparte. While she is grieving for them, she must deal with her unpredictable mother’s sorrow, and her younger sisters’ situation caused by it.
Georgianne’s problems increase when the arrogant, wealthy but elderly Earl of Pennington, proposes marriage to her for the sole purpose of being provided with an heir. At first she is tempted by his proposal, but something is not quite right about him. She rejects him not suspecting it will lead to unwelcome repercussions.
Once, Georgianne had wanted to marry an army officer. Now, she decides never to marry ‘a military man’ for fear he will be killed on the battlefield. However, Georgianne still dreams of a happy marriage before unexpected violence forces her to relinquish the chance to participate in a London Season sponsored by her aunt.
Shocked and in pain, Georgianne goes to the inn where her cousin Sarah’s step-brother, Major Tarrant, is staying, while waiting for the blacksmith to return to the village and shoe his horse. Recently, she has been reacquainted with Tarrant—whom she knew when in the nursery—at the vicarage where Sarah lives with her husband Reverend Stanton.
The war in the Iberian Peninsula is nearly at an end so, after his older brother’s death, Tarrant, who was wounded, returns to England where his father asks him to marry and produce an heir.
To please his father, Tarrant agrees to marry, but due to a personal tragedy he has decided never to father a child.
When Georgianne, arrives at the inn, quixotic Tarrant sympathises with her unhappy situation. Moreover, he is shocked by the unforgivably brutal treatment she has suffered.
Full of admiration for her beauty and courage Tarrant decides to help Georgianne.
Publication Date. June, 2012 Available from MuseItUpPublshing, Kindle Books and elsewhere
Sunday, 6 May 2012
Rain, rain go away.
This year in S.E. England we enjoyed some unseasonable hot weather, which was followed by heavy rain. Of course we needed the rain, water levels were very low but the hose pipe ban is like a death knell for gardeners. And now it's cold and wet which delays sowing herbs, fruit and vegs. To make matters worse a late frost has been forecast, and that will ruin my crops of apples, cherries, greengages, pears,.
However, I still have Swiss Chard, New Zealand Spinach and Curly Kale. As for the broad beans, they love the rain and are reaching for the sky.
I have a sunny bed - if we ever see the sun again - in my front garden, which I manured, and in which I then planted perpetual strawberries in. The strawberry plants in the adjacent bed have been there for some time. I'm not sure how long they will go on fruiting. As I write I can almost taste freshly picked, sun warmed strawberries that are nothing like the sour ones purchased in supermarkets. (By the way, even if you haven't got much space you can grow strawberries in pots.)
Some of the herbs, particularly fragrant dill and tasty chives are sprouting so, to use a pun, my grow your own garden is not a complete wash out.
However, I still have Swiss Chard, New Zealand Spinach and Curly Kale. As for the broad beans, they love the rain and are reaching for the sky.
I have a sunny bed - if we ever see the sun again - in my front garden, which I manured, and in which I then planted perpetual strawberries in. The strawberry plants in the adjacent bed have been there for some time. I'm not sure how long they will go on fruiting. As I write I can almost taste freshly picked, sun warmed strawberries that are nothing like the sour ones purchased in supermarkets. (By the way, even if you haven't got much space you can grow strawberries in pots.)
Some of the herbs, particularly fragrant dill and tasty chives are sprouting so, to use a pun, my grow your own garden is not a complete wash out.
Saturday, 28 April 2012
Away From Home
Last night I baby-sat at my daughter's house so that she could have a night out. No problems with the children but when I woke up this morning, although the guest bed is very comfortable, I realised there is nothing like one's own bed.
The two and a half year old makes me laugh when she says, "Oh dearie me," and "Oh Man." She's a fussy little thing who thinks she rules her family,
Enjoy your weekend.
The two and a half year old makes me laugh when she says, "Oh dearie me," and "Oh Man." She's a fussy little thing who thinks she rules her family,
Enjoy your weekend.
Monday, 23 April 2012
The Early Life of Georgette Heyer
The Early Life of Georgette Heyer
Author of Historical and Detective Fiction
16th August 1902 – 4th July 1974
From 1932 onwards a historical novel or a crime novel by, Georgette Heyer, was published every year. When she died, forty-eight of her books were still in print. Although she had not completed her last book My Lord John, the first of a trilogy about the house of Lancaster, which she regarded as her most important work, it was published after her death. Most of her historical novels are still being published. Therefore it is not surprising if we want to know more about her.
After the success of her novel These Old Shades released during the General Strike, Georgette Heyer believed publicity was unnecessary. From then on she gave no interviews, confiding in a friend: “My private life concerns no one but myself and my family.”Her best sellers, which journalist Lesley McDowell described as containing "derring-do, dashing blades, and maids in peril", were popular during the Depression and World War Two. In trying times they provided temporary escape from the realities and deprivations of war time. Her mention of Friday’s Child in a letter was: "'I think myself I ought to be shot for writing such nonsense. ... But it's unquestionably good escapist literature and I think I should rather like it if I were sitting in an air-raid shelter or recovering from flu."
Georgette, a feminine version of George, was named for her father and grandfather. It is possible George Heyer senior’s family was Jewish, for his father was a merchant in Southern Russia who lived in Kremenchuk Village where Jews were allowed to settle. In 1859, twenty-seven year old, George junior, a fur merchant, came to England from Kharkov, possibly to escape a Russian progrom. According to his granddaughter, he was an affectionate family man full of fun and stories. If he was a Jew by birth, he reinvented himself in England, where he first became a warehouseman. In 1863 when he was a large woolen wholesaler’s foreign agent he became a British citizen. Three weeks later, he married Alice Waters, from a family long-established in Norfolk.
In 1869 Alice gave birth to a son, who was not, according to Russian tradition given his father’s second name. Instead the baby was christened George. In many ways George senior was ridding himself of his past and adopting all things British.
George junior was brought up to become an English gentleman. Amongst other subjects, including French and Greek, he excelled in literature. His parents must have been very proud when he won a scholarship to Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge, founded by Frances Sidney, Countess of Sussex. The college was a Puritan foundation with the aims: some good and goodlie moniment for the mainteynance of good learninge. What George thought of one of the first students, Oliver Cromwell, whose head is buried beneath the College’s Ante-Chapel, is not known. It is known that George became very popular while taking advantage of good learninge during the four years he studied for his Classics degree, years in which he wrote poetry, something he would continue writing throughout his life.
George hoped to become an archaeologist, but when family fortunes did not permit it he became a teacher in Weymouth for some years before marrying Sylvia Watkins in August, 1901.
Sylvia’s family was wealthier than the Heyer family. Her father, who died in 1900, and his brother helped their father make a success of his international tugboat business. It is interesting to note that in Joseph Turner’s famous painting The Fighting Temeraire Tugged to her Last Berth to be Broken is towed by Watkins’s tugboat Monarch.
Waited on by servants, Sylvia, who had seven brothers and sisters, grew up in a substantial Victorian house, a happy home. Since Sylvia was musical, she received cello and pianoforte lessons. In 1895, at the age of nineteen she entered the internationally prestigious Royal Academy of Music where she studied for three years at the cost of eleven guineas a term. She dreamt of becoming a professional musician but conformed to society’s expectation that a young woman’s duty was to marry well and become a good wife and mother.
In the year when Sylvia began her studies at the Royal Academy of Music the Heyers moved into the house next door to her family. Six years later George junior and Sylvia married.
On the 16th of August, 1902, the recently married couple was delighted by Georgette’s birth in their house in Wimbledon, the first of many houses, mostly in the same town, that Georgette would grow up in.
A daughter in a well to do, but not rich, upper middle class parents, and with affectionate grandparents, aunts and uncles, Georgette grew up with pleasing manners, knowing how to behave in society and waited on by servants.
George Heyer adored his daughter. He had a ‘hands on’ approach to fatherhood unusual for an Edwardian gentleman. The baby developed to the sound of her father’s voice telling her tales from the Bible and Shakespeare, as well as children’s stories and nursery rhymes. She also listened to her mother playing musical instruments and singing.
From infancy onwards Georgette absorbed Victorian and Edwardian pride in the British Empire, the importance of class and good breeding along with a horror of vulgarity – factors prominent in her novels.
Educated at home until the First World War, Georgette’s love of literature was fostered by her father who encouraged her to read, and never forbade her to read any of her books. However, he insisted she master English grammar. He was delighted with her progress but her lack of musical talent disappointed her mother.
In 1907, when Georgette was five, her brother George Boris, (always called Boris) was born, to be followed in 1911 by the birth of her younger brother, Frank Dimitri. Throughout her life, Georgette would be the loving older sister portrayed in a charming photo. Smiling, her long hair loose, Georgette is standing by stool on which a top spins. Fascinated, Boris is looking down at it and Frank is peering over the edge of the stool enchanted by the sight.
* * * *
When Georgette was three years old her father, a very popular school master, quit his position as a French teacher at Kings College School in Wimbledon. Kings College Hospital, in need of £200,000 for new buildings, had appointed George as Appeals Secretary. By the time his first son was born he had also been given the position of Dean of the Medical School. He also found time to write and his poems were published in The Pall Mall Gazette, The Saturday Westminster Review and Granta. As for Georgette she made up stories and shared her father’s love of reading and writing,
To raise funds, George organised a carnival at Crystal Palace in Sydenham to raise funds. He also raised money through successful matinees in London at the Lyceum Theatre, Theatre Royal and Drury Lane, which gave him the opportunity to meet famous theatrical personalities and members of the nobility. Subsequently, he resigned from Kings College Hospital to become the Organising Secretary of the Shakespeare Memorial National Theatre Committee, and we can imagine him sharing his love of the bard and the theatre with his young daughter.
Throughout her childhood, Wimbledon with its leafy streets and large common, offered much to the future novelist. Sometimes George Heyer took her to meetings of the Wimbledon Literary and Scientific Society. George also taught his daughter to ride, which would stand her in good stead when writing historical fiction; and so did the horse drawn traffic, tradesmen’s, privately owned carriages, hackneys, the Box Hill stagecoach, the fire engine and powerful draught horses which pulled heavy loads.
In 1914 after George became the manager of the Paris branch of Cox’s bank he took his family to France. George Heyer appreciated the opportunity to enjoy French culture and society. Sylvia must have been delighted by musical entertainments not the least of which was the Paris opera. As for Georgette she stored up experiences and impressions, which she would one day use in her contemporary novel, Helen, in which the motherless heroine visits Paris with her father.
The outbreak of the First World War caused the Heyers return to Wimbledon, at which time, to avoid people thinking the surname was German, its pronunciation changed to hare.
Too old to be conscripted George believed it was his duty to enroll in the army. In September 1915 Lieutenant George Heyer joined The British Expeditionary Forces, Central Requisition Office in Rouen. Until then George had supervised his shy daughter’s education. Not only did his absence deprive her of his companionship, it also meant that at thirteen she must attend school for the first time. Georgette found it hard to adjust to the discipline at Oakhill Academy. Unfortunately, the intelligent girl with an unusual upbringing, who excelled in English language, literature, history and French, found it easier to make friends with teachers than she did with other girls. Those were difficult days for Georgette. Her mother, who had joined the Red Cross, was finding it difficult to manage financially. Conscious of the horrors of war, Georgette wrote to her father frequently about her life, obeying the unwritten rule that she should be cheerful.
When Georgette was seventeen, as well as corresponding with her father, Georgette wrote the first of her of novels, The Black Moth, in the form of a serial to amuse her brother Boris, a hemophiliac, while he was ill. In 1918 Georgette left Oakhill to attend The Study which promoted physical activities and offered a limited curriculum that did not interest her. The tedium and anxiety about the war was briefly alleviated when her father returned to England to be at his dying mother’s bedside. Subsequently her father, by now a Captain, received the MBE, but his father died without knowing about it; however her father’s inheritance enabled Georgette to participate in social life.
During the following year she met two daughters of Oxford dons, who would become her lifelong friends. The first was, Joanna Cannan, the twenty-two year daughter of a historian. Before the war Joanna’s poetry book was published. After the war, she wrote historical fiction and, amongst other things, historical biography. The second was twenty-three year old Carola Oman, who wrote children’s pony books and detective stories.
Georgette frequently met her friends, who hoped to be published, to talk about books. They also discussed each others works-in-progress and offered constructive criticism of it.
It would be interesting to know whether she discussed The Black Moth, about a gentleman highwayman accused of cheating at cards, with Joanna and Carola. Certainly her father enjoyed it and encouraged her to prepare it for submission to a publisher. The novel, which heralded her long career, was released in 1921. One of her biographers, Jane Aiken Hodge claimed the novel was typical of Heyer’s historical fiction with “the saturnine male lead, the marriage in danger, the extravagant young wife, and the group of idle, entertaining young men.”
Historical novels
The Black Moth 1921 Powder and Patch (originally published as The Transformation of Philip Jettan 1923),1930
The Great Roxhythe 1923 Simon the Coldheart 1925
These Old Shades 1926 The Masqueraders 1928
Beauvallet 1929 The Conqueror 1931
Devil’s Cub 1932 The Convenient Marriage 1934
Regency Buck 1935 The Talisman Ring 1936
An Infamous Army 1937 Royal Escape1938
The Spanish Bride 1940 The Corinthian 1940
Faro’s Daughter 1941 Friday’s Child 1944
The Reluctant Widow 1946 The Foundling 1948
Arabella 1949 The Grand Sophy 1950
The Quiet Gentleman 1951 Cotillion 1953
The Toll-Gate 1954 Bath Tangle 1955
Sprig Muslin 1956 April Lady 1957
Sylvester
:Or the Wicked Uncle 1957 Venetia 1958
The Unknown Ajax 1959 A Civil Contract 1961
The Nonesuch 1961 False Colours 1963
Frederica 1965 Black Sheep 1966
Cousin Kate 1968 Charity Girl 1970
Lady of Quality 1971 My Lord John 1975
Short Stories
Pistol for Two 1960 containing the following historical short stories.
Pistols for Two, A Clandestine Affair, Bath Miss, Pink Domino, A Husband for Fanny, To Have the Honour, Night at the Inn and The Duel, Hazard,
Snowdrift, and Full Moon.
Other short stories
A Proposal to Cicely (1922) The Bulldog and the Beast (1923)
Linckes' Great Case (1923) Runaway Match (1936) Pursuit (1939
Contemporary Novels
Instead of the Thorn (1923) Helen (1928)
Pastel (1929) Barren Corn (1930)
Contemporary Thrillers
Footsteps in the Dark (1932) Why Shoot a Butler? (1933)
The Unfinished Clue (1934) Death in the Stocks (1935)
Behold, Here's Poison (1936) They Found Him Dead (1937)
A Blunt Instrument (1938) No Wind of Blame (1939)
Envious Casca (1941) Penhallow (1942)
Duplicate Death (1951) Detection Unlimited (1953)
Principle Bibliography
The Private World of Georgette Heyer, Jaine Aiken Hodge Bodley Head.
Georgette Heyer Biography of a Best Seller, Jennifer Kloester
Author of Historical and Detective Fiction
16th August 1902 – 4th July 1974
From 1932 onwards a historical novel or a crime novel by, Georgette Heyer, was published every year. When she died, forty-eight of her books were still in print. Although she had not completed her last book My Lord John, the first of a trilogy about the house of Lancaster, which she regarded as her most important work, it was published after her death. Most of her historical novels are still being published. Therefore it is not surprising if we want to know more about her.
After the success of her novel These Old Shades released during the General Strike, Georgette Heyer believed publicity was unnecessary. From then on she gave no interviews, confiding in a friend: “My private life concerns no one but myself and my family.”Her best sellers, which journalist Lesley McDowell described as containing "derring-do, dashing blades, and maids in peril", were popular during the Depression and World War Two. In trying times they provided temporary escape from the realities and deprivations of war time. Her mention of Friday’s Child in a letter was: "'I think myself I ought to be shot for writing such nonsense. ... But it's unquestionably good escapist literature and I think I should rather like it if I were sitting in an air-raid shelter or recovering from flu."
Georgette, a feminine version of George, was named for her father and grandfather. It is possible George Heyer senior’s family was Jewish, for his father was a merchant in Southern Russia who lived in Kremenchuk Village where Jews were allowed to settle. In 1859, twenty-seven year old, George junior, a fur merchant, came to England from Kharkov, possibly to escape a Russian progrom. According to his granddaughter, he was an affectionate family man full of fun and stories. If he was a Jew by birth, he reinvented himself in England, where he first became a warehouseman. In 1863 when he was a large woolen wholesaler’s foreign agent he became a British citizen. Three weeks later, he married Alice Waters, from a family long-established in Norfolk.
In 1869 Alice gave birth to a son, who was not, according to Russian tradition given his father’s second name. Instead the baby was christened George. In many ways George senior was ridding himself of his past and adopting all things British.
George junior was brought up to become an English gentleman. Amongst other subjects, including French and Greek, he excelled in literature. His parents must have been very proud when he won a scholarship to Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge, founded by Frances Sidney, Countess of Sussex. The college was a Puritan foundation with the aims: some good and goodlie moniment for the mainteynance of good learninge. What George thought of one of the first students, Oliver Cromwell, whose head is buried beneath the College’s Ante-Chapel, is not known. It is known that George became very popular while taking advantage of good learninge during the four years he studied for his Classics degree, years in which he wrote poetry, something he would continue writing throughout his life.
George hoped to become an archaeologist, but when family fortunes did not permit it he became a teacher in Weymouth for some years before marrying Sylvia Watkins in August, 1901.
Sylvia’s family was wealthier than the Heyer family. Her father, who died in 1900, and his brother helped their father make a success of his international tugboat business. It is interesting to note that in Joseph Turner’s famous painting The Fighting Temeraire Tugged to her Last Berth to be Broken is towed by Watkins’s tugboat Monarch.
Waited on by servants, Sylvia, who had seven brothers and sisters, grew up in a substantial Victorian house, a happy home. Since Sylvia was musical, she received cello and pianoforte lessons. In 1895, at the age of nineteen she entered the internationally prestigious Royal Academy of Music where she studied for three years at the cost of eleven guineas a term. She dreamt of becoming a professional musician but conformed to society’s expectation that a young woman’s duty was to marry well and become a good wife and mother.
In the year when Sylvia began her studies at the Royal Academy of Music the Heyers moved into the house next door to her family. Six years later George junior and Sylvia married.
On the 16th of August, 1902, the recently married couple was delighted by Georgette’s birth in their house in Wimbledon, the first of many houses, mostly in the same town, that Georgette would grow up in.
A daughter in a well to do, but not rich, upper middle class parents, and with affectionate grandparents, aunts and uncles, Georgette grew up with pleasing manners, knowing how to behave in society and waited on by servants.
George Heyer adored his daughter. He had a ‘hands on’ approach to fatherhood unusual for an Edwardian gentleman. The baby developed to the sound of her father’s voice telling her tales from the Bible and Shakespeare, as well as children’s stories and nursery rhymes. She also listened to her mother playing musical instruments and singing.
From infancy onwards Georgette absorbed Victorian and Edwardian pride in the British Empire, the importance of class and good breeding along with a horror of vulgarity – factors prominent in her novels.
Educated at home until the First World War, Georgette’s love of literature was fostered by her father who encouraged her to read, and never forbade her to read any of her books. However, he insisted she master English grammar. He was delighted with her progress but her lack of musical talent disappointed her mother.
In 1907, when Georgette was five, her brother George Boris, (always called Boris) was born, to be followed in 1911 by the birth of her younger brother, Frank Dimitri. Throughout her life, Georgette would be the loving older sister portrayed in a charming photo. Smiling, her long hair loose, Georgette is standing by stool on which a top spins. Fascinated, Boris is looking down at it and Frank is peering over the edge of the stool enchanted by the sight.
* * * *
When Georgette was three years old her father, a very popular school master, quit his position as a French teacher at Kings College School in Wimbledon. Kings College Hospital, in need of £200,000 for new buildings, had appointed George as Appeals Secretary. By the time his first son was born he had also been given the position of Dean of the Medical School. He also found time to write and his poems were published in The Pall Mall Gazette, The Saturday Westminster Review and Granta. As for Georgette she made up stories and shared her father’s love of reading and writing,
To raise funds, George organised a carnival at Crystal Palace in Sydenham to raise funds. He also raised money through successful matinees in London at the Lyceum Theatre, Theatre Royal and Drury Lane, which gave him the opportunity to meet famous theatrical personalities and members of the nobility. Subsequently, he resigned from Kings College Hospital to become the Organising Secretary of the Shakespeare Memorial National Theatre Committee, and we can imagine him sharing his love of the bard and the theatre with his young daughter.
Throughout her childhood, Wimbledon with its leafy streets and large common, offered much to the future novelist. Sometimes George Heyer took her to meetings of the Wimbledon Literary and Scientific Society. George also taught his daughter to ride, which would stand her in good stead when writing historical fiction; and so did the horse drawn traffic, tradesmen’s, privately owned carriages, hackneys, the Box Hill stagecoach, the fire engine and powerful draught horses which pulled heavy loads.
In 1914 after George became the manager of the Paris branch of Cox’s bank he took his family to France. George Heyer appreciated the opportunity to enjoy French culture and society. Sylvia must have been delighted by musical entertainments not the least of which was the Paris opera. As for Georgette she stored up experiences and impressions, which she would one day use in her contemporary novel, Helen, in which the motherless heroine visits Paris with her father.
The outbreak of the First World War caused the Heyers return to Wimbledon, at which time, to avoid people thinking the surname was German, its pronunciation changed to hare.
Too old to be conscripted George believed it was his duty to enroll in the army. In September 1915 Lieutenant George Heyer joined The British Expeditionary Forces, Central Requisition Office in Rouen. Until then George had supervised his shy daughter’s education. Not only did his absence deprive her of his companionship, it also meant that at thirteen she must attend school for the first time. Georgette found it hard to adjust to the discipline at Oakhill Academy. Unfortunately, the intelligent girl with an unusual upbringing, who excelled in English language, literature, history and French, found it easier to make friends with teachers than she did with other girls. Those were difficult days for Georgette. Her mother, who had joined the Red Cross, was finding it difficult to manage financially. Conscious of the horrors of war, Georgette wrote to her father frequently about her life, obeying the unwritten rule that she should be cheerful.
When Georgette was seventeen, as well as corresponding with her father, Georgette wrote the first of her of novels, The Black Moth, in the form of a serial to amuse her brother Boris, a hemophiliac, while he was ill. In 1918 Georgette left Oakhill to attend The Study which promoted physical activities and offered a limited curriculum that did not interest her. The tedium and anxiety about the war was briefly alleviated when her father returned to England to be at his dying mother’s bedside. Subsequently her father, by now a Captain, received the MBE, but his father died without knowing about it; however her father’s inheritance enabled Georgette to participate in social life.
During the following year she met two daughters of Oxford dons, who would become her lifelong friends. The first was, Joanna Cannan, the twenty-two year daughter of a historian. Before the war Joanna’s poetry book was published. After the war, she wrote historical fiction and, amongst other things, historical biography. The second was twenty-three year old Carola Oman, who wrote children’s pony books and detective stories.
Georgette frequently met her friends, who hoped to be published, to talk about books. They also discussed each others works-in-progress and offered constructive criticism of it.
It would be interesting to know whether she discussed The Black Moth, about a gentleman highwayman accused of cheating at cards, with Joanna and Carola. Certainly her father enjoyed it and encouraged her to prepare it for submission to a publisher. The novel, which heralded her long career, was released in 1921. One of her biographers, Jane Aiken Hodge claimed the novel was typical of Heyer’s historical fiction with “the saturnine male lead, the marriage in danger, the extravagant young wife, and the group of idle, entertaining young men.”
Historical novels
The Black Moth 1921 Powder and Patch (originally published as The Transformation of Philip Jettan 1923),1930
The Great Roxhythe 1923 Simon the Coldheart 1925
These Old Shades 1926 The Masqueraders 1928
Beauvallet 1929 The Conqueror 1931
Devil’s Cub 1932 The Convenient Marriage 1934
Regency Buck 1935 The Talisman Ring 1936
An Infamous Army 1937 Royal Escape1938
The Spanish Bride 1940 The Corinthian 1940
Faro’s Daughter 1941 Friday’s Child 1944
The Reluctant Widow 1946 The Foundling 1948
Arabella 1949 The Grand Sophy 1950
The Quiet Gentleman 1951 Cotillion 1953
The Toll-Gate 1954 Bath Tangle 1955
Sprig Muslin 1956 April Lady 1957
Sylvester
:Or the Wicked Uncle 1957 Venetia 1958
The Unknown Ajax 1959 A Civil Contract 1961
The Nonesuch 1961 False Colours 1963
Frederica 1965 Black Sheep 1966
Cousin Kate 1968 Charity Girl 1970
Lady of Quality 1971 My Lord John 1975
Short Stories
Pistol for Two 1960 containing the following historical short stories.
Pistols for Two, A Clandestine Affair, Bath Miss, Pink Domino, A Husband for Fanny, To Have the Honour, Night at the Inn and The Duel, Hazard,
Snowdrift, and Full Moon.
Other short stories
A Proposal to Cicely (1922) The Bulldog and the Beast (1923)
Linckes' Great Case (1923) Runaway Match (1936) Pursuit (1939
Contemporary Novels
Instead of the Thorn (1923) Helen (1928)
Pastel (1929) Barren Corn (1930)
Contemporary Thrillers
Footsteps in the Dark (1932) Why Shoot a Butler? (1933)
The Unfinished Clue (1934) Death in the Stocks (1935)
Behold, Here's Poison (1936) They Found Him Dead (1937)
A Blunt Instrument (1938) No Wind of Blame (1939)
Envious Casca (1941) Penhallow (1942)
Duplicate Death (1951) Detection Unlimited (1953)
Principle Bibliography
The Private World of Georgette Heyer, Jaine Aiken Hodge Bodley Head.
Georgette Heyer Biography of a Best Seller, Jennifer Kloester
Saturday, 14 April 2012
Tangled Love a Book Trailer
I am proud to announce the book trailer for Tangled Love set in England in Queen Anne's reign.
You may view it on my website or at this link http://youtu.be/Psz_Z8_3Jko
You may view it on my website or at this link http://youtu.be/Psz_Z8_3Jko
Friday, 13 April 2012
Lucky Seven
I am working on a new novel called Tangled Lives set in England in Queen Anne's reign 1702 - 1714.
Here is a seven line extract from page 77.
William dabbed the blood oozing onto the white lace at his throat with his silk handkerchief. “I do not understand what you mean.”
“Lord Kemp, if Mistress Kemp challenges you in an English court of law and it decides her mother’s betrothal to Monsieur Sarazzin should have been upheld, to all intents and purposes your father would have been a bigamist.” Gervaise grinned. “Even if you had the satisfaction of your half-sisters being declared illegitimate, would it not be as pretty a kettle of fish as you ever did see?”
And here are seven authors whose work I enjoy. Benita Brown, Freda Lightfoot, Margaret Chrisawn, Mirella Patzer, Roseanne Dowell, Rosalie Skinner and last but not least Wally Rabbani
Here is a seven line extract from page 77.
William dabbed the blood oozing onto the white lace at his throat with his silk handkerchief. “I do not understand what you mean.”
“Lord Kemp, if Mistress Kemp challenges you in an English court of law and it decides her mother’s betrothal to Monsieur Sarazzin should have been upheld, to all intents and purposes your father would have been a bigamist.” Gervaise grinned. “Even if you had the satisfaction of your half-sisters being declared illegitimate, would it not be as pretty a kettle of fish as you ever did see?”
And here are seven authors whose work I enjoy. Benita Brown, Freda Lightfoot, Margaret Chrisawn, Mirella Patzer, Roseanne Dowell, Rosalie Skinner and last but not least Wally Rabbani
Tuesday, 10 April 2012
Inspiration on Holiday
On Saturday, I returned from a week's holiday in North Devon with my daughter and her three children.
My father's paternal family had strong links with the West Country, and I have happy memories of childhood holidays in Somerset and Devonshire.
As soon as we crossed the border in Somerset and saw the sign Welcome to Somerset I felt as though I was coming home. In Devonshire, daffodils and primroses bloomed in the banks on either side of narrow, twisting country roads. The gorse was ablaze with golden blooms. As we travelled vibrant geen fields dotted with ewes and lambs or cattle spread as far as my eyes could see.
The villages, stately homes and the varied coastline awakened many happy memories and stirred my imagination. By the time we returned home at the end of the week I had a plot and theme for a new novel in mind and had already written the first paragraphs.
Due to the edits of my novels of my novel Sunday's Child to be published in June, and False Pretences to be published in October as well as other writing projects I don't know when I'll begin the novel; but that's all right because the characters will have time to to develop before I begin it.
All the best,
Rosemary Morris
My father's paternal family had strong links with the West Country, and I have happy memories of childhood holidays in Somerset and Devonshire.
As soon as we crossed the border in Somerset and saw the sign Welcome to Somerset I felt as though I was coming home. In Devonshire, daffodils and primroses bloomed in the banks on either side of narrow, twisting country roads. The gorse was ablaze with golden blooms. As we travelled vibrant geen fields dotted with ewes and lambs or cattle spread as far as my eyes could see.
The villages, stately homes and the varied coastline awakened many happy memories and stirred my imagination. By the time we returned home at the end of the week I had a plot and theme for a new novel in mind and had already written the first paragraphs.
Due to the edits of my novels of my novel Sunday's Child to be published in June, and False Pretences to be published in October as well as other writing projects I don't know when I'll begin the novel; but that's all right because the characters will have time to to develop before I begin it.
All the best,
Rosemary Morris
Monday, 12 March 2012
My guest blog at The Romantic Novelists Association
Tomorrow I will be a guest blogger at the Romantic Novelists Association of Great Britain.
You are cordially invited to read about me and to learn about the RNA.
Link: htp://www.romanticnovelists association.org
You are cordially invited to read about me and to learn about the RNA.
Link: htp://www.romanticnovelists association.org
Saturday, 25 February 2012
Review of Tangled Love
I am delighted with this review of my novel on Amazon kindle.
Love, betrayal, treasure trove,
By
J. Pittam "Maythorn" (Hertfordshire, England)
This review is for: Tangled Love (Kindle Edition)
I very much enjoyed this new author. Tangled Love is set at the turn of the 18th century it follows the fortunes of Richelda, poverty-stricken daughter of a now-dead Jacobite. Richelda is haunted by the childhood oath she made at her father's instigation, to regain their ancestral home. She knows she has little chance of fulfilling that dream - until her wealthy aunt promises to make Richelda her heiress. But there is a condition; she must marry the man of her aunt's choosing- Viscount Lord Chesney. Richelda's feelings for Chesney are ambivalent and her heart already belongs to her peniless childhood companion, Dudley.
Love and betrayal, misplaced loyalties, even the promise of a treasure trove make this an charming story with a well-rounded, believable heroine and a delicious hero. Rosemary Morris's attention to historical detail brings period and place vividly to life. More please,
All the best,
Rosemary Morris
Love, betrayal, treasure trove,
By
J. Pittam "Maythorn" (Hertfordshire, England)
This review is for: Tangled Love (Kindle Edition)
I very much enjoyed this new author. Tangled Love is set at the turn of the 18th century it follows the fortunes of Richelda, poverty-stricken daughter of a now-dead Jacobite. Richelda is haunted by the childhood oath she made at her father's instigation, to regain their ancestral home. She knows she has little chance of fulfilling that dream - until her wealthy aunt promises to make Richelda her heiress. But there is a condition; she must marry the man of her aunt's choosing- Viscount Lord Chesney. Richelda's feelings for Chesney are ambivalent and her heart already belongs to her peniless childhood companion, Dudley.
Love and betrayal, misplaced loyalties, even the promise of a treasure trove make this an charming story with a well-rounded, believable heroine and a delicious hero. Rosemary Morris's attention to historical detail brings period and place vividly to life. More please,
All the best,
Rosemary Morris
Wednesday, 22 February 2012
Guest blog with Paige Hurtado
I am also pleased to announce that I am a guest blogger at Paige Hurtado's blog paigehurtado.blogspot.com/2011/12/author-introduction.
Paige, who is working on her first novel, kindly invited me to be a guest and I'm delighted with the blog,
All the best,
Rosemary Morris
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
New release.Tangled Love the tale of two great houses and their owners set in England in 1706
Paige, who is working on her first novel, kindly invited me to be a guest and I'm delighted with the blog,
All the best,
Rosemary Morris
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
New release.Tangled Love the tale of two great houses and their owners set in England in 1706
Rosemary Morris guest at Helen Hollick's blog
I'm delighted to announce that I am a guest of Helen Hollick, the international best seller, at:http://helen-myguests.blogspot.com.
Helen asked me to invite ten guests - visit the blog to find out who I invited. I hope you will find them intriguing,
All the best,
Rosemary
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
Tangled Love the tale of two great houses and their owners set in 1706 available now from MuseItUppublishing,Kindle,Kobo,Sony-e-reader and elsewhere.
Helen asked me to invite ten guests - visit the blog to find out who I invited. I hope you will find them intriguing,
All the best,
Rosemary
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
Tangled Love the tale of two great houses and their owners set in 1706 available now from MuseItUppublishing,Kindle,Kobo,Sony-e-reader and elsewhere.
Monday, 2 January 2012
The Sad and The Good
One Year On
This time last year I was mourning the death of my mother at the age of one hundred. Although the last years of her life were impaired by macular vision and hearing loss, she remained mentally alert. When asked how she was, Mum always replied she was amongst life’s lucky ones because she had a lovely flat in a retirement home, good health compared to many others and sufficient money as well as a loving family. ‘Some people of my age,’ she said, ‘have no one and others have families who scarcely keep in touch.’
Mum’s last birthday was on Boxing Day, 2012. She enjoyed her party and took pleasure in her card from the Queen. On the night of the 28th she left her body in her sleep.
I still miss her very much but am not selfish enough to wish she had lived on suffering from ill health.
My nine year old grandson write this moving tribute to her, which the teacher did not dare to read to the class for fear she would cry.
Death
Why do people have to die?
Why can’t they stay with us forever?
When Mum and Dad told me Great Grandma had died
It felt as though all the happiness had been sucked out of the world by a giant black hole.
My heart had completely deflated.
No one can describe death.
If me and my dad and all the people who came for my great grandma could build a ladder to get her down
We really truly would.
Nobody can describe death.
In the church at the funeral, sadness on everyone’s faces,
My heart was in my boots,
It was like despair had taken over.
It was like the world was black.
Tears filled my eyes as people said all the kind things my great grandma had done.
I fought hard to keep them back.
But hearing all the good things she had done my heart filled like a champion weight lifter pushing it up.
Nobody can describe death.
Death creates a big black hole in you but you can fill it up with happy memories of the person that died.
But still…Nobody can describe death.
When he read it to me over the phone, tears welled up in my eyes, but I restrained my grief, remembering a quotation from the translation of The Bhagavad-Gita As It Is by A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada. “As the embodied soul continually passes, in this body, from boyhood to youth to old age, the soul similarly passes into another body at death.
This year I have achieved so much that my mother would have been pleased with. Three of my novels will be published in 2012. I have had two articles, first Baroness Orczy, and then The Scarlet Pimpernel, and a third, Samuel Pepys, will also be published in 2012 by Vintage Press.
I’m fortunate to be able to have children and grandchildren who I love dearly, to write historical fiction and articles and to garden organically. As Mum advised me, I’m counting my blessings.
My garden’s been very productive this year. From the time the rhubarb was ready to eat to now, when I have herbs and vegetables – Swiss chard, New Zealand Spinach, parsnips, turnips, red and green kale, brussel sprouts, – in the garden - carrots, marrows and pumpkins stored in the garden shed, and home grown veggies and fruit in the freezer, I have been at least 60% self-sufficient. The only disaster was the fate of 40 kilos of home grown potatoes stored in Hessian sacks in the garden shed which mice nibbled. They even nibbled the sacks!
Hopefully, 2012 will be happy for all of us, and I wish you all a healthy and prosperous New Year in which all your dreams come true.
Rosemary Morris
Historical Novelist
New releases from MuseItUp.
Tangled Love 27th January 2012.
Sunday’s Child June, 2012.
False Pretences, October 2012
This time last year I was mourning the death of my mother at the age of one hundred. Although the last years of her life were impaired by macular vision and hearing loss, she remained mentally alert. When asked how she was, Mum always replied she was amongst life’s lucky ones because she had a lovely flat in a retirement home, good health compared to many others and sufficient money as well as a loving family. ‘Some people of my age,’ she said, ‘have no one and others have families who scarcely keep in touch.’
Mum’s last birthday was on Boxing Day, 2012. She enjoyed her party and took pleasure in her card from the Queen. On the night of the 28th she left her body in her sleep.
I still miss her very much but am not selfish enough to wish she had lived on suffering from ill health.
My nine year old grandson write this moving tribute to her, which the teacher did not dare to read to the class for fear she would cry.
Death
Why do people have to die?
Why can’t they stay with us forever?
When Mum and Dad told me Great Grandma had died
It felt as though all the happiness had been sucked out of the world by a giant black hole.
My heart had completely deflated.
No one can describe death.
If me and my dad and all the people who came for my great grandma could build a ladder to get her down
We really truly would.
Nobody can describe death.
In the church at the funeral, sadness on everyone’s faces,
My heart was in my boots,
It was like despair had taken over.
It was like the world was black.
Tears filled my eyes as people said all the kind things my great grandma had done.
I fought hard to keep them back.
But hearing all the good things she had done my heart filled like a champion weight lifter pushing it up.
Nobody can describe death.
Death creates a big black hole in you but you can fill it up with happy memories of the person that died.
But still…Nobody can describe death.
When he read it to me over the phone, tears welled up in my eyes, but I restrained my grief, remembering a quotation from the translation of The Bhagavad-Gita As It Is by A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada. “As the embodied soul continually passes, in this body, from boyhood to youth to old age, the soul similarly passes into another body at death.
This year I have achieved so much that my mother would have been pleased with. Three of my novels will be published in 2012. I have had two articles, first Baroness Orczy, and then The Scarlet Pimpernel, and a third, Samuel Pepys, will also be published in 2012 by Vintage Press.
I’m fortunate to be able to have children and grandchildren who I love dearly, to write historical fiction and articles and to garden organically. As Mum advised me, I’m counting my blessings.
My garden’s been very productive this year. From the time the rhubarb was ready to eat to now, when I have herbs and vegetables – Swiss chard, New Zealand Spinach, parsnips, turnips, red and green kale, brussel sprouts, – in the garden - carrots, marrows and pumpkins stored in the garden shed, and home grown veggies and fruit in the freezer, I have been at least 60% self-sufficient. The only disaster was the fate of 40 kilos of home grown potatoes stored in Hessian sacks in the garden shed which mice nibbled. They even nibbled the sacks!
Hopefully, 2012 will be happy for all of us, and I wish you all a healthy and prosperous New Year in which all your dreams come true.
Rosemary Morris
Historical Novelist
New releases from MuseItUp.
Tangled Love 27th January 2012.
Sunday’s Child June, 2012.
False Pretences, October 2012
Sunday, 18 December 2011
Kick Starting the Muse
Kick Starting the Muse
I would be a rich woman if I received a pound each time someone tells me, “I could write a novel.” I usually ask why don’t you write it. More often than not the reply is, “I don’t have time.”
Time is the factor which separates writers from would be writers. There is always something which beckons a writer whether it is a mundane task such as doing the laundry, which I should make a start on right now, or accepting an invitation.
I would be even richer if I received a pound each time someone asks, “Where do you get your ideas from?” When the writing is not going well I’m tempted to smile and reply, “From the supermarket.” Actually, that’s not quite as far fetched as it seems. I’ve often overheard partial conversations that trigger an idea or seen a face which seems to step out of a historical era, a Roman soldier, a Norman Knight, a Mediaeval lady, a Franciscan monk, a Cavalier etc.
Potential material to kick start the muse is all around me and in non fiction, biographies and autobiographies. I am a historical novelist so my muse responds to something I read about times past, which must then translate itself onto the computer.
Stephen King wrote. “Don’t wait for the muse. This isn’t an Ouija board or spirit world we are talking about here, but just another job – like laying pipe or driving long-haul trucks.”
So, how have I trained my muse? I have always understood the importance of having a place to write in which my muse and I can settle down. Once it was at a desk in the corner of the living room, today it is the smallest bedroom in the house which I have converted into an office.
After long hard battles my sometimes reluctant muse now understands that I have a regular writing routine. I rise early in the morning, deal with some e-mails, edit the last few pages of the previous day’s work in progress and then write until 10 or 11 a.m. Later in the day I work from 4 or 5 p.m. to 8 or 9 p.m., and sometimes my muse prompts me at night with an idea.
Anyone can establish a writing routine. The important thing is to write for set periods whether they are long or short. For example, if we write half a page a day we will have finished a novel by the end of the year. A bonus is that the muse will respect this and, as the saying goes, knuckle down to work.
My muse stays with me most of the time. When I’m doing housework, gardening or shopping Muse helps me to plot and plan. Recently, while at the health suite enjoying my time in the Jacuzzi, my muse and I have been considering the sequel to my novel, Sunday’s Child. We have been tossing ideas backwards and forwards, rejecting some and building on others. By the time we settle at the computer or the laptop we will have a plot and theme.
Regardless of whether we are published or unpublished, if we are determined, with the help of our muses, we will find the time and space to write.
Rosemary Morris
Historical Novelist
Publisher MuseItUp
Tangled Love January, 2012
Sunday’s Child June 2012
False Pretences October 2012
http://www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
I would be a rich woman if I received a pound each time someone tells me, “I could write a novel.” I usually ask why don’t you write it. More often than not the reply is, “I don’t have time.”
Time is the factor which separates writers from would be writers. There is always something which beckons a writer whether it is a mundane task such as doing the laundry, which I should make a start on right now, or accepting an invitation.
I would be even richer if I received a pound each time someone asks, “Where do you get your ideas from?” When the writing is not going well I’m tempted to smile and reply, “From the supermarket.” Actually, that’s not quite as far fetched as it seems. I’ve often overheard partial conversations that trigger an idea or seen a face which seems to step out of a historical era, a Roman soldier, a Norman Knight, a Mediaeval lady, a Franciscan monk, a Cavalier etc.
Potential material to kick start the muse is all around me and in non fiction, biographies and autobiographies. I am a historical novelist so my muse responds to something I read about times past, which must then translate itself onto the computer.
Stephen King wrote. “Don’t wait for the muse. This isn’t an Ouija board or spirit world we are talking about here, but just another job – like laying pipe or driving long-haul trucks.”
So, how have I trained my muse? I have always understood the importance of having a place to write in which my muse and I can settle down. Once it was at a desk in the corner of the living room, today it is the smallest bedroom in the house which I have converted into an office.
After long hard battles my sometimes reluctant muse now understands that I have a regular writing routine. I rise early in the morning, deal with some e-mails, edit the last few pages of the previous day’s work in progress and then write until 10 or 11 a.m. Later in the day I work from 4 or 5 p.m. to 8 or 9 p.m., and sometimes my muse prompts me at night with an idea.
Anyone can establish a writing routine. The important thing is to write for set periods whether they are long or short. For example, if we write half a page a day we will have finished a novel by the end of the year. A bonus is that the muse will respect this and, as the saying goes, knuckle down to work.
My muse stays with me most of the time. When I’m doing housework, gardening or shopping Muse helps me to plot and plan. Recently, while at the health suite enjoying my time in the Jacuzzi, my muse and I have been considering the sequel to my novel, Sunday’s Child. We have been tossing ideas backwards and forwards, rejecting some and building on others. By the time we settle at the computer or the laptop we will have a plot and theme.
Regardless of whether we are published or unpublished, if we are determined, with the help of our muses, we will find the time and space to write.
Rosemary Morris
Historical Novelist
Publisher MuseItUp
Tangled Love January, 2012
Sunday’s Child June 2012
False Pretences October 2012
http://www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
Saturday, 26 November 2011
Creating believable historical fiction characters
Thoughts on Creating Believable Historical Characters
So far, I have only written historical novels set in England, but regardless of when and where a novel is set the characters must be believable.
Before I start writing a historical novel I name my characters. I find The Oxford Dictionary of English Christian Names invaluable.
Even then, I can go wrong. For example, in my work in progress set in Edward II of England’s reign I named the hero’s father, Marmaduke. Someone who critiques my chapters pointed out that Marmaduke is the name of a popular cartoon character in the U.S.A. To be on the safe side I checked in the Oxford Dictionary of English Christian Names and found out that Marmaduc was mentioned in the Assize Rolls in 1219 so I renamed my character.
It irritates me when, for example, a character is called Wendy prior to 1904 when J.M.Barry first used it in Peter Pan. It also causes me to lose faith it he author.
After I name my characters I create a detailed profile for each major character. Later, as I introduce other characters, I create a simple one for each minor character. This helps me to breathe life into each protagonist.
Amongst other things in the profiles, I describe the character’s physical appearance, background, and, if necessary, regional accent. In dialogue, I indicate the accent and try not overdo it. (I’ve noticed that some authors who set their novels in Scotland use words such as ‘aye’, ‘ye’ etc., so often that it is irritating and makes the dialogue difficult to read.)
Other considerations are financial circumstances, home life, education, and relatives who assist or obstruct my character.
Characters’ behaviour and attitudes need to be in accordance with the historical period that a novelist has chosen. In my opinion, and others may disagree, a novel in which the characters act like 21st century people transported back in time. Before I begin a novel I work my way through a pile of reference books in order to understand contemporary attitudes and beliefs.
I also need to understand the ramifications of class. For example, in my mediaeval novel an earl wants to dress his mistress in opulent clothes but obeys the law governing what different classes may wear. Status is another important consideration. The earl’s mistress (a villein) plans and plots ways to gain her freedom.
Another important consideration is the position of women in society. Other than widows, did they have any control over their property? Did they have any say in the way their children were brought up? What were the differences between women from different classes? Something a novelist needs to bear in mind is that throughout the ages, women have been controlled by men due to factors such as family ties, financial considerations and the law. If a woman chose to defy her father, legal guardian or husband, what would her situation be? Without masculine support, how would she survive? Another question that needs to be answered is how men regarded women.
A historical novelist needs to know how those in the chosen era regarded the world around them. What did they think of foreigners, other religions, education, war, etc? For example, depending on when the novel is set, and to name a few issues, what were the attitudes towards the Roman occupation, Wars of the Roses, the dissolution of the monasteries, the Roman Catholic Church, the British Empire and the 1st and 2nd world wars.
There are many other things to consider, including the clothes which were worn. I was very amused by a young woman in a novel who ran for a mile in spite of tightly laced stays stiffened with whalebone and full skirts and petticoats.
There are many traps for the unwary novelist but with careful research most of them can be overcome.
http://www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://rosemarymorris.blogspot.com
So far, I have only written historical novels set in England, but regardless of when and where a novel is set the characters must be believable.
Before I start writing a historical novel I name my characters. I find The Oxford Dictionary of English Christian Names invaluable.
Even then, I can go wrong. For example, in my work in progress set in Edward II of England’s reign I named the hero’s father, Marmaduke. Someone who critiques my chapters pointed out that Marmaduke is the name of a popular cartoon character in the U.S.A. To be on the safe side I checked in the Oxford Dictionary of English Christian Names and found out that Marmaduc was mentioned in the Assize Rolls in 1219 so I renamed my character.
It irritates me when, for example, a character is called Wendy prior to 1904 when J.M.Barry first used it in Peter Pan. It also causes me to lose faith it he author.
After I name my characters I create a detailed profile for each major character. Later, as I introduce other characters, I create a simple one for each minor character. This helps me to breathe life into each protagonist.
Amongst other things in the profiles, I describe the character’s physical appearance, background, and, if necessary, regional accent. In dialogue, I indicate the accent and try not overdo it. (I’ve noticed that some authors who set their novels in Scotland use words such as ‘aye’, ‘ye’ etc., so often that it is irritating and makes the dialogue difficult to read.)
Other considerations are financial circumstances, home life, education, and relatives who assist or obstruct my character.
Characters’ behaviour and attitudes need to be in accordance with the historical period that a novelist has chosen. In my opinion, and others may disagree, a novel in which the characters act like 21st century people transported back in time. Before I begin a novel I work my way through a pile of reference books in order to understand contemporary attitudes and beliefs.
I also need to understand the ramifications of class. For example, in my mediaeval novel an earl wants to dress his mistress in opulent clothes but obeys the law governing what different classes may wear. Status is another important consideration. The earl’s mistress (a villein) plans and plots ways to gain her freedom.
Another important consideration is the position of women in society. Other than widows, did they have any control over their property? Did they have any say in the way their children were brought up? What were the differences between women from different classes? Something a novelist needs to bear in mind is that throughout the ages, women have been controlled by men due to factors such as family ties, financial considerations and the law. If a woman chose to defy her father, legal guardian or husband, what would her situation be? Without masculine support, how would she survive? Another question that needs to be answered is how men regarded women.
A historical novelist needs to know how those in the chosen era regarded the world around them. What did they think of foreigners, other religions, education, war, etc? For example, depending on when the novel is set, and to name a few issues, what were the attitudes towards the Roman occupation, Wars of the Roses, the dissolution of the monasteries, the Roman Catholic Church, the British Empire and the 1st and 2nd world wars.
There are many other things to consider, including the clothes which were worn. I was very amused by a young woman in a novel who ran for a mile in spite of tightly laced stays stiffened with whalebone and full skirts and petticoats.
There are many traps for the unwary novelist but with careful research most of them can be overcome.
http://www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://rosemarymorris.blogspot.com
Saturday, 19 November 2011
Madleine Grown Up by Mrs Robert Henrey
I have finished re-reading Madeleine Grown Up. the sequel to The Little Madeleine in which the authoress, Madeleine aka Mrs Robert Henrey, writes of her life as a child in Montmartre and elsewhere in France. Madeleine Grown Up covers the period from 1928 to 1929 when she worked as a manicurist in the Savoy Hotel. Her observations of life in Stacey Street, where she shared a room with her mother, who continued to work as a dressmaker, are fascinating and so are those of the Savoy, her clients and members of staff.
For example, she writes movingly about Davy the page, who would stand with his back to the door while Madeleine and the other manicurists sewed or darned their stockings while singing No,No, Nanette, Lady Be Good or Yes We have No Bananas.
“Davy never stopped. When the bar was open customers would send him off for cocktails; others wanted cigarettes or theatre tickets. The cashier sent him to the A.B.C with a tumbler for her afternoon tea. Hew used to race back across the busy Strand holding the steaming glass in a serviette, dodging in and out of the traffic, diving under the nose of our tall commissionaire, then balancing his precious cargo on the tips of his fingers, push through the swing doors. We all liked him. Fifth or sixth of a very large family, he had a passion for a baby sister to whom for Christmas he had given her a perambulator, costing twenty-two shillings for her doll. He would have liked to buy a bed for the doll and he was saving his sixpences and shillings, but the Strand was full of temptations when he and Georgie” another page “ would glue their faces against the windows of bicycle shops, the shops that sold photographic apparatus and the postage stamps and all the other things dear to boys so that the money Davey had set aside for his little sister’s doll’s bed was broken into sometimes, and a conflict raged between brother and growing man.
“Both boys were tiny. Their delicate limbs and faces whitened by the slums were their chief asset in life, their charm, their stock-in-trade They looked like plants brought up in hot-houses….”
Mrs Robert Henrey’s books are alive with memorable people who populated her world.
She also makes her most mundane experiences interesting.
“As there was no cloak-room attached to the shop, my colleagues and I had the right to use the very luxurious one reserved for the famous grill-room. The woman who guarded this fortress did not arrive till eleven, so that all the morning, or at least for the best part of it, this palace of marble or white porcelain and tall mirrors with its Niagara of hot water was almost my own….The tall mirrors caught me, handing me from one to the other. My little black dress was poor, but my magnificent shock of blonde hair shone like a ball of fire under the myriad electric lights. ….Now for the wash basins with the gallons and gallons of hot water….was it not reasonable to wash my stockings? Soon, being of a practical nature, I washed my lingerie.”
Madeleine’s blonde hair, energy, enthusiasm and French accent attracted many admirers at the Savoy. Amongst them was a Hollywood film magnate who sent photos of her to the studio and arranged for her to go to America. However, she met Robert, her future husband at the Savoy. On the following evening he took her out to dinner and kissed her in the taxi. Madeleine chose love instead of Hollywood and, after a long illness when she fought against death in the Pyrenees, she returned to England hoping her mother was wrong when she said that Robert would have forgotten her.
While travelling by car in France, Madeleine and her companions passed through “…small white villages scorched by the sun. …one did not see anybody except an occasional little old woman all in black sitting on a cane chair, her feet in black stockings and black shoes on a footstool, a cat asleep behind geraniums on the window-sill, and hens pecking around her. How happy she must be! I seldom saw such a wizened old woman without thinking this, and hoping one day to be contented and happy… Yes, she (the old woman) must be happy! May I end my days with the orange cat, the geraniums and the pecking hens!”
Cured, Madeleine returned to England where Robert met her at the railway station. Before long they married in St Georges, Hanover Square.
Mrs Robert Henrey’s biographies and autobiographies fascinate me. I plan to read as many as possible and share some of them on my blog.
Rosemary Morris
Historical Novelist
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
New releases from MuseItUp Publishing
Tangled Love set in England in Queen Anne's reign 1702-1714 27.01.2012
Sunday's Child set in the Regency era 06.2012
For example, she writes movingly about Davy the page, who would stand with his back to the door while Madeleine and the other manicurists sewed or darned their stockings while singing No,No, Nanette, Lady Be Good or Yes We have No Bananas.
“Davy never stopped. When the bar was open customers would send him off for cocktails; others wanted cigarettes or theatre tickets. The cashier sent him to the A.B.C with a tumbler for her afternoon tea. Hew used to race back across the busy Strand holding the steaming glass in a serviette, dodging in and out of the traffic, diving under the nose of our tall commissionaire, then balancing his precious cargo on the tips of his fingers, push through the swing doors. We all liked him. Fifth or sixth of a very large family, he had a passion for a baby sister to whom for Christmas he had given her a perambulator, costing twenty-two shillings for her doll. He would have liked to buy a bed for the doll and he was saving his sixpences and shillings, but the Strand was full of temptations when he and Georgie” another page “ would glue their faces against the windows of bicycle shops, the shops that sold photographic apparatus and the postage stamps and all the other things dear to boys so that the money Davey had set aside for his little sister’s doll’s bed was broken into sometimes, and a conflict raged between brother and growing man.
“Both boys were tiny. Their delicate limbs and faces whitened by the slums were their chief asset in life, their charm, their stock-in-trade They looked like plants brought up in hot-houses….”
Mrs Robert Henrey’s books are alive with memorable people who populated her world.
She also makes her most mundane experiences interesting.
“As there was no cloak-room attached to the shop, my colleagues and I had the right to use the very luxurious one reserved for the famous grill-room. The woman who guarded this fortress did not arrive till eleven, so that all the morning, or at least for the best part of it, this palace of marble or white porcelain and tall mirrors with its Niagara of hot water was almost my own….The tall mirrors caught me, handing me from one to the other. My little black dress was poor, but my magnificent shock of blonde hair shone like a ball of fire under the myriad electric lights. ….Now for the wash basins with the gallons and gallons of hot water….was it not reasonable to wash my stockings? Soon, being of a practical nature, I washed my lingerie.”
Madeleine’s blonde hair, energy, enthusiasm and French accent attracted many admirers at the Savoy. Amongst them was a Hollywood film magnate who sent photos of her to the studio and arranged for her to go to America. However, she met Robert, her future husband at the Savoy. On the following evening he took her out to dinner and kissed her in the taxi. Madeleine chose love instead of Hollywood and, after a long illness when she fought against death in the Pyrenees, she returned to England hoping her mother was wrong when she said that Robert would have forgotten her.
While travelling by car in France, Madeleine and her companions passed through “…small white villages scorched by the sun. …one did not see anybody except an occasional little old woman all in black sitting on a cane chair, her feet in black stockings and black shoes on a footstool, a cat asleep behind geraniums on the window-sill, and hens pecking around her. How happy she must be! I seldom saw such a wizened old woman without thinking this, and hoping one day to be contented and happy… Yes, she (the old woman) must be happy! May I end my days with the orange cat, the geraniums and the pecking hens!”
Cured, Madeleine returned to England where Robert met her at the railway station. Before long they married in St Georges, Hanover Square.
Mrs Robert Henrey’s biographies and autobiographies fascinate me. I plan to read as many as possible and share some of them on my blog.
Rosemary Morris
Historical Novelist
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
New releases from MuseItUp Publishing
Tangled Love set in England in Queen Anne's reign 1702-1714 27.01.2012
Sunday's Child set in the Regency era 06.2012
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